


together we will live forever

by afterhours



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterhours/pseuds/afterhours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I won’t outlive you, Enjolras.” He grinds down again and Enjolras pushes up into him, doesn’t know whether he’s objecting or assenting through the parry of his own hips. “Ah– I’m afraid I’m,” Grantaire’s hands move to the arms of the chair, aiding the rise of his body before he presses down again, a firm counter to whatever Enjolras has just tried to say, “I’m simply not interested in that scenario.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	together we will live forever

When they first got together ― and it was a while, after that first clash of tongue and teeth, before either of them were brave enough to say it, _together_ , beyond the moments the adjective applied to their bodies crushed against whatever surface would have them ― it was a boiling over of the tension that had made the air thick and electric between them, a logical escalation of the ideological sparring they’d done for months before. Their tongues had dueled since the night they met; it only made sense that sooner or later, they would literally war for dominance, each man carving angry words into the other’s mouth with swooping gestures, sharp reprimands that left marks in the shapes of their incisors. It had been rough, furious, merciless. It was over two months before they slept in the same bed, and another month before they admitted they were doing so for anything beyond convenience.

Now, two years into their relationship ― 25 months and change since the night they’d finally admitted it wasn’t just their _bodies_ that were together ― they can take their time. They still fuck to argue, are entirely too different and too volatile and too invested in one another’s bullshit not to, but some nights, like this, it’s slow and languid, unhurried, Grantaire grinding down into Enjolras’s lap in their favourite chair (one that most of their friends avoid sitting on, after the Great Stain Scandal of July 2012’s movie night), both of them taking their time, taking each other apart piece by piece, the noises drawn from their throats long and low, woven seamlessly with their exhalations. They are quite naked, and what light there was in the apartment when they began has faded, the shapes of their bodies mapped by touch and memory more than sight, blue-tinted outlines moving in tandem in the otherwise still room. Enjolras’s hand slides up Grantaire’s tattooed chest to the arch of his neck, the stubble lining his skin and the taut muscle beneath it, and stays there, gentle, clasped with just enough pressure to make Grantaire gasp head falling back on his lover’s shoulder.

Enjolras loses track of his words sometimes when they make love like this, though of course, his words have always had a habit of eluding his control when Grantaire is involved. He is only half-aware of his own speech as he murmurs into the mess of Grantaire’s curls. “I want you just like this,” and his voice is strained with the warmth and closeness of Grantaire, the weight of his lover’s body moving steady and slow on his. Grantaire’s back is lined up with Enjolras’s chest, his fingers digging into Enjolras’s thighs, and it makes Enjolras wish the marks they left on each other scarred, never faded. He wants the broad span of Grantaire’s hands etched on his skin forever, indentations left for Grantaire’s flesh to fill, slotted together in every possible way “I want you for life. I want you like this, for the rest of my life. You’re staying here for the rest of my life.”

Enjolras can feel the laugh Grantaire lets out beneath his fingers, against his chest, ascending into the night, leaving indelible ripples in the air around them. “That might be a problem, Apollo.” He punctuates his words with a twist of his hips that makes Enjolras’s hand constrict on Grantaire’s throat, his own head falling back against the chair as his eyes squeeze shut, pressing up just a little, just enough to feel Grantaire tighten in return. Grantaire turns his head and Enjolras can feel his mouth messy on his own neck, warm and brief and desperate despite their excruciating pace. A moment later Grantaire’s hair replaces his mouth, and he speaks to the room at large, lifting his hips and settling them again, twisting down on Enjolras’s cock. Enjolras couldn’t interrupt him if he wanted to. “You can have me.” He presses down harder, sharper; Enjolras’s thumbnail leaves a crescent in his skin. “For life. Mine. But not yours. I won’t outlive you, Enjolras.” He grinds down again and Enjolras pushes up into him, doesn’t know whether he’s objecting or assenting through the parry of his own hips. “ _Ah_ – I’m afraid I’m,” Grantaire’s hands move to the arms of the chair, aiding the rise of his body before he presses down again, a firm counter to whatever Enjolras has just tried to say, “I’m simply not interested in that scenario.”

A part of Enjolras wants to lift Grantaire up, pin him down to the chair or the table or the floor if he has to, fuck him until Grantaire is nothing but merciful _Yes_ , but Grantaire knows him too well, the movement of his lover’s hips on top of him and the warmth of him, everywhere, is too exquisite to disrupt; they had to fight for moments like this, and Enjolras is not willing to end it, not just yet. Instead he tilts his head down again, squeezes Grantaire with the arm wrapped around his torso and bites into the artist’s shoulder, eliciting a groan that is long and deep, accompanied by a heady constriction that nearly makes Enjolras forget what he meant to say.

Nearly.

“I suppose we’ll have to time it right, then,” he mumbles through the smile he’s pressed into his lover’s neck (and he doesn’t have to look to know that Grantaire is smiling too, even as he gives a sudden twist of his hips that makes Enjolras all too aware of how little time they have left in this stolen moment, this interjection of calm in their still all-too-often tumultuous relationship). “You’re too stubborn to do — _fuck_ , ‘Aire — to do what I want, and I– I won’t see you still. I won’t see you stilled. Stolen.” He presses a kiss to the sheen of sweat slicking Grantaire’s skin, pausing for a breath before he lifts his hips, and Grantaire with them, another low moan filling the apartment. “We’ll have to time it, then. Two at one shot.” He kisses Grantaire again, holding him tighter, his hand sliding from his lover’s neck to wrap around his cock, stroking in time with the brutally patient pace Grantaire’s set. “We’ll– we’ll have to have very good timing.”

Grantaire is still smiling when he turns his head to meet Enjolras’s mouth, an arm wrapping behind them to bring Enjolras forward, crushing golden curls against the nape of his neck. “Shut up, Enjolras,” he croons, and there is so much affection in his tone that Enjolras wants nothing so much as to kiss him bloody. “Why don’t you just shut up and come?”

**Author's Note:**

> TWO AT ONE MONEY SHOT AM I RIGHT???
> 
> No excuse for this. Unbeta'd smooshy porn. Title is from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XZkLmomNgA) off the soundtrack to _The Fountain_ ; thanks, Clint Mansell, for your v. dramatic titles. I thought of this fic while falling asleep and started laughing when my Enjolras muse quoted Grantaire (what an asshole, Enjolras, was that line strictly necessary or advisable?), and decided I had to write it. Concrit welcome, comments swooned over.


End file.
